


An Explanation, of Sorts, and a Warning (and a Trail to Start Down for Unexpected Happiness)

by tuesday



Category: Pundit RPF (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-16
Updated: 2009-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-07 17:36:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/67526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesday/pseuds/tuesday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or: The Dangers of Grad Students, Loving Many People, and Being Unfortunate Enough to Be Born One Stephen Colbert, Sufferer of Curses Such As Seen Rarely Outside Fairy Tales or Other Dark Stories</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Explanation, of Sorts, and a Warning (and a Trail to Start Down for Unexpected Happiness)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to sirdrakesheir for going above and beyond and being roped into an unexpected full beta at the last minute in addition to being there for me for the story arc the whole way through. Seriously, you are amazing.

Stephen's biggest problem with being an undergraduate at Northwestern was the grad students. It was like there was a conspiracy against his heart and his libido and his overall sanity. Specifically, there were two grad students who were particularly taxing in each regard. One might say something like, "It's only two people, Stephen, I don't see what you're so worked up over. And it's not like Rahm ever _means_ to humiliate you in front of your other idol with his teasing or like Jon _intentionally_ snubs you when he walks by in the morning and fails to notice you until you say hi."

One would, of course, have to be brain-damaged or otherwise mentally defective to actually believe this—_yes, Cooper, I'm talking to you_, Stephen inevitably found himself saying.

To be completely honest, it wasn't that bad the majority of his first two years. His comm class was set up such that each lab was led by a graduate assistant, and Stephen's was a particularly winsome young grad student named Fi. In class, she sported a rigid demeanor and a wardrobe that looked so sharp it might slice an unwary passerby who brushed too close, and outside of class she was easy-going and still wore the kind of clothes that looked like they might cut you, but less by accident and more like what would happen after they dragged you into a back alley and rifled through your pockets for spare change. Stephen was fascinated by her, would even admit to having suffered a little hero worship, but it wasn't anything that sent him into spiraling nightmares of having to choose or made him worry that his future expectations for attraction were going to make some therapist very rich and happy someday. Stephen suspected there were brilliant academic papers in his future, but he had a feeling that they were not so much _by_ him as a serious study _on_ him and the various neuroses inflicted upon him over the course of his sophomore and junior years.

That is, if Rahm Emanuel didn't kill him first.

—

"I don't get what your obsession with Rahm killing you is," Cooper said. "He's not that bad—"

"He is the face of evil," Stephen said. "The proof is in your inability to recognize it."

"—and anyway, didn't you say something about Jon rescuing you if the situation ever deteriorated that far?"

Stephen gave Cooper a helpless look. Cooper had wide, gorgeous blue eyes framed by long lashes that invited you in to stay a while, to drown in a pleasant, calm sea; his body was all slender curves and smooth lines and strong sinew; he had an ass you could bounce a quarter off of—and yet, none of that made up for the fact that he was really quite dim, even for a freshman.

"I hate that I can never tell if you mean to monologue aloud, or if your mouth just runs away with you when you get all flustered," Cooper said, still lounging on the floor with a textbook like the world wasn't about to end in disaster. Then again, it wasn't Cooper's world; it was Stephen's that was about to enter its own tiny, grad-student-inflicted apocalypse.

"If you can't tell after a year of rooming with me, you may never know," Stephen said, turning to soak in what little comfort he could from Cooper's aesthetic appeal before attempting to smother himself with a pillow. Stephen trusted his arms to carry out the task even once the lack of oxygen caused him to pass out. Terror would provide ample incentive even in the case of unconsciousness.

Unfortunately, before matters could quite progress that far, there was the muffled sound of footsteps approaching, and a hand snatched away the possibility of kind, pillowy death.

"Sometimes, Cooper, I wonder about your soft-hearted image, and if it really exists as a front to cover the truth of your deep-rooted sadism. This is why you like Rahm Emanuel so much. It's less a moth to the flames or innocent to the Bacchanalia, and more a twisted soul drawn to another, twistier soul, like, like packages of Twizzlers clumping together."

Someone cleared his throat, sounding almost as though he were attempting to choke down laughter. That someone was most assuredly not one Anderson Cooper, Stephen's roommate and third place contender for bane of Stephen's existence.

Stephen held out a hand and kept his eyes clenched shut. "If you don't mind, I'd like my less painful means of murder back now."

Stephen half-expected to hear Rahm's voice cut in and say, "That can be arranged," before the pillow was forcibly shoved back in Stephen's face, but instead, there was only Jon again, saying, "I think if you do it to yourself, it's called 'suicide.'"

"In this case, it would be euthanasia," Stephen assured Jon, finally opening his eyes to reveal that it was, indeed, only Jon. They could split up! Who knew when he would be flanked! And Rahm was definitely a rogue, so Stephen would be open to sneak attack. This was officially the worst day ever.

Jon brought the pillow up to hide his lower face, but it was obvious from the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that he was laughing at Stephen and his pain.

"They're not wrinkles," Jon said, trying to speak over his giggles, "and I'm not laughing at you, I—" Stephen glowered, and Jon admitted, "Okay, I'm laughing at you, but you have to admit it's pretty funny."

"Be sure to put that on my epitaph," Stephen said. "Died horribly, but at least it was hilarious for the rest of us."

"You're not going to die," Cooper said, not even bothering to glance over from his textbook now that Jon was in the room.

"You're not," Jon agreed, placing the pillow at Stephen's side and leaning down to ruffle his hair.

"You're feeding me to the lion," Stephen said dolefully, unable to even work up proper indignation when Jon was running his fingers through Stephen's hair.

"Most people would be glad to be invited to a grad student's party," Jon said, bemused. Stephen could tell from the way his lips twitched and the almost burbling quality to his voice, like little currents of laughter swirled and eddied underneath.

"Sure," Stephen agreed. "_Most_ people are too stupid to know they're going to their deaths."

Jon laughed again and held out a hand to help Stephen up from the bed. As usual, he brushed off Stephen's concern like so much dust from his hands. Stephen couldn't even say no, because it was _Jon_, and who could say no to such a sweet angel of death? Jon, Stephen was convinced, wasn't really a closet sadist. Closeted other things, sure, but Jon's part in Stephen's doom wasn't so much one specific planned piece of an evil master plan as it was a laissez faire attitude toward life that would ultimately lead to Stephen's death.

"I'm not closeted," Jon said, and his hand remained wrapped around Stephen's as he tugged him from the room, fingers wrapped together. He turned back to Cooper and said, "You can come, too, you know."

Cooper's eyes lit up, and he put the textbook to the side. "Really?" he asked.

"I wouldn't have offered if I weren't serious," Jon said.

Stephen changed his mind again, because Cooper looked like nothing so much as the anthropomorphized picture of an excited puppy. Stephen could practically see the pricked ears and wagging tail. No, Cooper wasn't in this for pleasure of observing Stephen's pain and humiliation. He was simply another potential victim.

"It'll be fun," Jon said.

Jon wasn't evil, but he was pretty much the epitome of the dangers of benign negligence. Stephen would have protested for Cooper's sake if not his own, but Jon's fingers were warm, and already he was moving forward, encouraging Stephen to follow. Where Jon was concerned, Stephen's biggest problem was that he just didn't know how to say no.

—

Let's back this up a little.

Maybe not so far as the beginning.

(In the beginning, there was the birth of a squalling baby boy whom everyone agreed had a bright future, just look at his ten fingers and toes and the adorable way he scrunched his face and tightened his fists—never mind the curse fate placed upon him to one day meet not just Jon Stewart and not just Rahm Emanuel, but both together, and would then somehow manage to draw their attention down on his most unlucky of selves.)

(Or, in the beginning, there was the Word, and it was something about letting there be light, but soon after that came the clause that there would be light for everyone but Stephen Colbert, never mind that he didn't exist yet.)

(Or maybe if, like Cooper, you couldn't appreciate sacred texts as exact, unbiased sources of history-as-it-really-happened, yes-all-of-it, even-the-bit-with-flaming-swords-and-plagues-upon-the-earth (obviously mere warm-ups for Stephen's later appearance), then in the beginning, there was a huge star or something like that, which split into other stars in an explosion or something similar—look, Stephen didn't pay that much attention in chem class, there were fantasy books lying open on his lap under the table, demanding that he read them before they rose up and enslaved the earth, and Stephen was nothing if not willing to sacrifice himself for the sake of mankind—and those stars gave off radiation and built up elements that eventually formed the planet earth and plants and people, or at least this is what Stephen thought he maybe remembered, never mind if he flunked that test. This set in motion a chain of events as inevitable as—as gravity, as entropy, as nuclear decay—that would eventually lead to the existence of one Stephen Colbert and the two graduate students who would break him.)

So Stephen had Fi for his comm class, and while she couldn't convince him to switch majors, she did manage to persuade him to come hang out on occasion once he'd passed her class. At first, it was all about table-top gaming and bad horror movies and the rare impromptu water fight. Fi led a strange and charming life, one Stephen yearned to share—not as a two-become-one, we-must-be-soul-mates kind of deal, but more in a this-is-really-cool, your-life-is-truly-a-fairy-land kind of way.

It was to Stephen's misfortune that he failed to remember the Sidhe.

—

Maybe if Stephen had met Jon first, he could've been content to be reeled in and to settle happily at Jon's feet like a hunting hound who hoped to be favorite and granted a warm place at the fire.

Maybe if Stephen had met Rahm first—actually, Stephen couldn't imagine any happy ending where he met Rahm first. It came back to the hunting analogy, but whereas with Jon there was this sense that he didn't actually demand your unfailing obedience, Rahm gave the impression that he was just sizing you up for a dog collar.

Maybe it still might have ended, if not well, at least a little less messily, if only Stephen had met them on a good night, rather than during a break in what had apparently been a legendary friendship and maybe something more.

(And maybe if Stephen hadn't met either of them, it might've been better when the boy with ocean eyes had wandered into his dorm room with two large duffel bags and said, "Um, are you Stephen Colbert?" and then, turning red immediately as though Stephen had accused him of rudeness, followed it up with, "Oh, uh, I'm, I'm Anderson Cooper. Your new roommate. Obviously." Maybe it could have been the beginning to a tale more of romance and dorky-princes-come-at-last than one of woe and Stephen's-inevitable-annihilation.)

Stephen couldn't even blame anyone else, because Fi was very clear, said, "I have some friends over tonight that—well—let's just say you shouldn't be here, and if there is any mercy in the world, I won't be either when Rahm starts throwing china and Jon argues over who gets the kids in the divorce."

A voice from inside shouted, "We don't have any fucking kids, you over-involved harpy!" From the crash that followed it, Stephen assumed this was Rahm.

Another voice said in response, half-joking, mostly-furious, "That's because you said you didn't want any, you self-involved dickweed." Even if the children hadn't been a clue, simple process of elimination indicated this was Jon.

Stephen should have run. It was the only sane course of action when presented with the knowledge that there were two people approaching who were, if Fi's words were anything to go by, nearing the point of berserker rage.

Unfortunately, they all had their flaws. Cooper, for instance, was known more for his pretty, pretty eyes than any pathetic fledgling struggles toward use of any (extremely well-hidden, even to himself, if it existed at all) intellect. (And never mind Cooper's grades or scholarship or the words of his professors, all clearly brain-washed and drowning in Cooper's creepily gorgeous eyes, having foolishly followed the long eyelashes' invitation in.)

Stephen might have been witty and intelligent and heaped with a wealth of blessings from the Talent-and-Other-Amazing-Qualities Fairy, but he was also cursed. It was destiny. No matter what anyone said, it was not curiosity or fear that held Stephen in place while his future doom moved toward him swift and unerring as a heat-seeking missile toward a miniature blazing sun. It was the cold shackles of fate that chained Stephen there, and any squeak that might have passed his lips when Jon and Rahm appeared in the doorway was simply the product of discomfort from its iron ring closing into place around his neck.

"You want kids, here's one," Rahm said, reaching a hand forward to grab the sleeve of Stephen's shirt, like he had any real chance of escape anyway.

"He's mine," Jon said, grabbing Stephen's other sleeve.

"And that's my cue to go," Fi said, shooting Stephen a look that said quite clearly, "You have my greatest sympathies," but also, "You're on your own, fool. I'd recommend sacrificing the shirt, before the choice is giving up the arms underneath." It was her apartment, but she fled, which told Stephen his best option probably was to bid the shirt farewell.

But that would have meant escaping also the shackles of destiny, which clearly he couldn't do (and also, it was his second favorite shirt). And then it was too late—their grips had shifted to Stephen's elbow and forearm.

Stephen was sure that that was the moment he was going to die, rent asunder by two scarily attractive men in a fashion that had certainly never figured into any of his fantasies, though if he survived, he would probably never fantasize ever again, because this, apparently, was what came of them—the world deciding to grant them in the most horrible way possible. It occurred to Stephen after a moment that he was babbling, mostly after Rahm and Jon had already caught on and turned their stares to him. It was like being caught in the twin glare of headlights, and Stephen wondered if there was any version of Bambi in which he was plowed down by a semi-trailer of C4.

Stephen was still babbling.

Jon started laughing first, but Rahm followed soon after. Stephen tried standing very still and hoping that, like Velociraptors (or was that T-Rexes?), they would be unable to see him.

"We're keeping him," Jon said firmly.

"What if I said to get your own?" Rahm said with a challenging lilt to his voice.

"We're. Keeping. Him," Jon said again. He took a step closer to Rahm—subsequently, even closer to Stephen, practically pressed against him.

Stephen wondered if it was possible to pass out from a combination of terror and a sort of detached joy. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, going out this way, because from the way Rahm and Jon were eyeing one another, it looked like any second now one of Stephen's fantasies really was going to come to life, except for that whole grisly death in the process part, which was definitely _not on his list_.

Rahm turned his raptor gaze to Stephen, and it was almost fond, if vicious, capricious dinosaurs about to eat you could be said to be fond. Someone had once told Stephen he would be eaten by a grue. He wondered if this person had in truth been a seer, and by grue, they'd meant a dangerous grad student. Rahm patted Stephen's cheek with a surprising gentleness as he said, "Fine, we'll keep him."

Stephen wanted to ask if by keeping, they meant keeping like a kept boy, which part of Stephen objected to on principle and another part took entirely too much preening pleasure in, or if by keeping him, they meant like livestock to be served up later. Stephen didn't think Jon looked like the sort of person who would ever want to hurt him, but he couldn't bring himself to trust Jon to keep him safe twenty-four seven, either. He looked like the kind of guy who might get the munchies and wander away.

"It's not like I just smoked a bowl," Jon said, rolling his eyes and pulling Stephen inside.

"And I wouldn't eat you," Rahm said in a voice that was anything but reassuring. Stephen wondered if normal people showed that many teeth in a smile. "Not unless you asked really nicely."

"Like you've responded to a kind request in your life," Jon said.

Rahm smirked. "I can think of one or two."

Stephen wondered if they'd forgotten him and whether he could make it to the door if they let their grip slip, or if they would unite in cause once more and fall upon him before he could manage even a couple doddering steps away.

Jon patted Stephen's back and spoke in a voice that failed utterly at its attempts to be comforting, because nothing the tone tried could fix the contents of the message it conveyed: "Don't worry, we have no intention of forgetting about you."

And because Stephen was cursed—with ill luck, with friends who'd abandoned him, and with a veritable plague of grad students (and yes, two could indeed be a plague; Rahm _alone_ could be a plague)—this turned out to be true.

—

If you wanted a later beginning, you could say it started with Wednesday lunches.

Fi said, "It's not like I've sold you into man-slavery."

Stephen's eyebrows rose, felt like they wanted to flee his face in reaction to the implications of Fi's statement. Before Stephen could seize that wonderful idea and vault the table, make for the nearest unblocked door, hands descended on either shoulder like iron weights holding him down, and the suspiciously empty chairs on either side of Stephen were filled immediately by the weirdoes from the night previous.

"After all, you're really more like a boy," Fi said cheerfully. "Take care of him, guys." And for the second time in two days, Fi abandoned him to his fate.

"Weirdoes?" Rahm asked. "This from the guy who spills every passing thought."

"I don't know, we are pretty weird," Jon said cheerfully, linking a friendly arm around Stephen's shoulder. Stephen leaned distrustfully into it.

"It's only when I'm completely terrified," Stephen said. "Or, er, tired. Or cranky. Or—"

"We get the point," Rahm said, but he was smiling like Stephen was a jester performing an especially clever act.

"I'm working on it," Stephen said.

"I don't know, I'm getting kind of attached to you as is," Jon said, and it wasn't fair that someone who seemed to spend the majority of his life within five feet of one of the scariest people Stephen had ever met could come across as so warm, so welcoming, like the baited honey to attract flies for the Venus Fly trap.

Rahm looked entirely too pleased at being compared to a carnivorous plant, and Jon—

Jon said, "Aw, you think I'm sweet," and smiled at Stephen like it was all one big joke, like there was nothing in Jon to like at all.

And it was this that caused Stephen to gape at Jon, with his pretty boy curls and striking features, smooth muscles that girls must want to eat up with a spoon; his sweet smiles and giggling laughter soft like spun sugar against the ear. Rahm was all edges concealed and slyly revealed, like Fi's wardrobe brought to life, but Jon—Jon was sweet and gorgeous and amazing, and yet had somehow ended up with _modesty_. This managed to cause Stephen more horror than all the previous horrifying moments with Rahm combined.

—

To say that they stalked Stephen afterward would have been to exaggerate the free time of graduate students. But to say that they left him alone would be a blatant, blatant lie.

(And to say that Stephen didn't enjoy it— didn't thrill a little at all the attention in between all the sudden shocks of terror their (and by their, Stephen meant Rahm's) random appearances elicited—well, that, too, might have been less than fully truthful, but Stephen had no intention of ever admitting it.)

Fortunately for his nerves, the end of the year approached rapidly, and he spent the summer in South Carolina taking long relaxing walks and not jumping at shadows.

Two weeks in, Stephen managed to grow tired of the pleasant relief of boredom. He took a job stocking shelves and tried not to stare too hard when he took inventory of the jars of honey, placed for some reason unknown to him next to a few lonely jars of dried cactus, the labels of which reminded him too much of pictures of Venus Fly traps.

"What do people even use it for?" Stephen asked, bewildered, of Abby, a fellow stock girl. (Not to say that Stephen was a girl, but that they had solidarity in their bondage to the grocery store, were fellow foot soldiers in the service of food).

"I have no idea," she said, examining her cuticles with disinterest.

Stephen tried not to think how much of his natural draw to her was from a cursory resemblance in appearance and attitude with one weirdo, curse-bearing graduate student. They both had sunken eyes and dark smiles and probably knew voodoo witch magic that could kill him in his sleep.

"I don't fuck around with voodoo," Abby said, rolling her eyes.

But Stephen was getting a little better at controlling his tendency toward word vomit, because Abby never said anything about Stephen sublimating a gay crush after she pulled him into the back one slow summer day and pressed him against a crate to try to eat his mouth as he stood there, hands clasping her tiny shoulders and letting her have her way—though the truth was that Stephen thought it rather loudly. She'd been chewing bubble gum, and her tongue tasted sweet, like candy as it delved in. Stephen wondered if that was what Jon's lips would taste like, if her hard, pushy hands against his shoulder would be anything like Rahm's, whom he imagined would be nothing like gentle.

When the bell to the front of the store rang, Abby said, "Shit," and stepped back, straightening her shirt as she hurried out of the store room.

Stephen slid slowly down, back still resting against the crate, and pressed his fingers to his tingling lips, then gently against one arm, where angry red marks were blooming into what looked like future bruises. "Shit," Stephen repeated after her, though it was completely unrelated to any concern over being fired.

—

Stephen returned to school his junior year as soon as he possibly could. Under normal circumstances he might have put it off, prolonged by a day or two the upcoming year. His previous roommate, a quiet, but mostly clean senior, had graduated, and Stephen wasn't looking forward to meeting his replacement.

Sure, Jack had a tendency to stay up at all hours and Stephen had begun to suspect near the end that someone had replaced him with a zombie, considered the growing pallor of his flesh and the way his reaction to anything not directly relating to his final projects only elicited a barely-vocalized grunt as he moved off to class with a tired, dejected gate, more like a lurching shuffle than anything a fully living human should have been able to produce. But at least the only thing Stephen had ever worried about decomposing was his roommate, not random pieces of fruit or pizza or other remains left to molder until they developed their own miniature ecologies, complete with adventurous lifeforms harnessing the dusty breeze emitted by the air conditioning to explore the room and stake out new territory.

Stephen's first college roommate was probably responsible for any number of new and mysterious forms of life. In turn, Stephen was responsible for snuffing them all out. It was a shame if he'd destroyed the next Penicillin, but it was a necessary task, before they could turn out to be the next dolphin, but with their beady intelligence unconfined by the sea. Sure, humans and dolphins got along fine, now, but Stephen was just waiting for the tragic day dolphins grew legs or humans attempted to colonize the ocean.

So really, considering the unknown roommate situation, it would have been understandable if Stephen had waited, dreaded the semester to follow. Not to mention that Rahm and Jon had never left the campus, would be there, waiting for him, like—like fanged predators in the night, lurking at the edges of darkness. Jon would be the good-humored one with a soul, who didn't condone killing and survived off animals or the occasional consenting human. Rahm—Rahm would be the unrepentant bloodsucker with a rather unfathomable sex appeal. Stephen wondered if they were vampires, what wardrobe choices would they make, and if they would be the old school Dracula type, and if so, was Stephen meant to be Mina or Renfield? Stephen couldn't even kid himself that he might be Jonathan Harker.

Stephen tried not to examine too closely his reasons for rushing back.

When he did arrive, it turned out that there was some confusion over rooming assignments.

"There was a computer glitch. One of the freshman wasn't actually given a room," the RA, Griff, told him.

"And—?" Stephen asked carefully.

"And the person who was going to be your roommate originally requested being put in a triple with friends from the same major," Griff said. "They're still processing that."

"So—"

"Surprise, new roommate. He'll be along shortly."

In the very least, Stephen thought glumly, the new roommate couldn't be any worse than his plague of grad students. And later, when the roommate appeared and apparently didn't have the sense God gave a befuddled baby rabbit to flee danger, no matter _how_ cute he appeared, Stephen was reassured that at least he'd been right. Anderson Cooper would only be the _third_ worst bane of his existence.

—

And the thing was, if this were the Disney sort of fairy tale (instead of the ones where Snow White made her stepmother dance in flames, and the mermaid not only didn't get the boy, but melted into sea foam, and the witch was actually a very nice old lady whom Hansel and Gretel thought would make great pasties, what, like you never heard that story, shut up, Cooper, Stephen Colbert is not a liar), then maybe the beginning might have been with Anderson Cooper's appearance.

See, up until Fi, Stephen hadn't really made many friends after switching universities and moving to Northwestern.

Sure, he got along just fine with the other theater students, but—but Stephen, in his button-up shirts and khakis and encyclopedic knowledge of Tolkien's indexes—Stephen wasn't the perfect theater pretty boy. He didn't really fit, and he had a tendency to accidentally alienate his classmates when his mouth ran away from him. On occasion, he'd mention fleeting thoughts like how Alex's hair looked like it might dive-bomb passers-by like an angry mother eagle, or how Cindy really was very cute, but more in the way of a demented baby chick than anyone Stephen would actually be comfortable dating. It wasn't like anyone hated Stephen, but it was kind of difficult to have any sort of even footing, or even uneven footing with people who often looked like they wanted to back several steps away, like word vomit was catching, or maybe they just thought it was some sort of communicable crazy.

And then there was Fi, and she had a hundred other friends and was always rushing off to teach classes or take classes or grade papers or write them, but in her rare free time, she let Stephen in on her wonderful-life-as-a-fairy-land, or at least occasionally-fun-life-that-could've-qualified-as-a-Disney-ride, like the quirky, eccentric neighbor who sometimes left the garden gate open and had tea parties, if said tea parties had included water balloons and pretend sword fights and other such strange, exhilarating means of stress relief. But he and Fi weren't actually all that close, as much as he might have admired her, no matter how many weekly lunches they had together. Stephen was only one of several undergraduate and graduate students she'd collected around herself like lost baby ducklings, or—or random courtiers, all different sorts of academic refugees flocking to her side. As much as it meant to Stephen, for her, it wasn't anything special, and that was how it was with most of the people he knew.

Anderson Cooper was special.

Stephen could see this even past Cooper's fumbling introduction, his face tingeing a light fuchsia, sneakers scuffing against the floor, toeing the canvas of one of his bags. As Stephen already said, Cooper had eyes that invited drowning, and most people were more than happy to jump in. Just a year ago, Stephen would have been more than happy to jump in. And okay, Cooper was a bit dim, a low-wattage bulb, the candle that just wouldn't light—(shut up, Cooper, you know it's true)—but he was eye candy of the sort to cause diabetes-induced blindness, and it wasn't just aesthetics, but his natural disposition that was sweet. He genuinely cared about people and said he wanted to change the world, like a very young Lancelot. He had the second-most endearing giggle Stephen had ever heard.

But there was where it all broke down, because maybe Cooper might have become Stephen's closest university friend, been called Anderson, and Stephen would have mooned over him like an Arthur-less Guinevere, but—

But Stephen already had an Arthur, of sorts, and whatever you would call Rahm, maybe an eviler and far more sexy Merlin. Maybe this metaphor didn't work as well, because the love triangle was supposed to be between Arthur, Guinevere, and Lancelot—if you were working off of White's version, which Stephen was—with the occasional twisty appearance of Morgan Le Fey. So if Stephen adjusted things so Rahm was Morgan—well, it still didn't really work, because there was nothing incestuous about Jon and Rahm, and Stephen was the interloper, even if he was one kidnapped into the position.

The point—the point is, Stephen's failed metaphors aside—that Anderson Cooper was everything Stephen should have wanted to want, was someone for whom Stephen felt an unwilling pang of fondness regardless—but he was no Jon Stewart.

Or Rahm Emanuel, for that matter, something Stephen could only be grateful for, because he was sure that the world would have been doomed to the second power if there were two Rahm Emanuels in the world. The sun would've spontaneously supernovaed in sheer terror.

The point is that this wasn't the beginning, because no matter how almost perfect Cooper was, how quickly they fell into an easy friendship, this story isn't about Anderson Cooper. It's about Stephen Colbert.

And Stephen Colbert was doomed to be torn between Jon Stewart and Rahm Emanuel like an asteroid splintering under the force of gravity of two opposing stars. It was physics. It was destiny. It was the wrong damn fairy tale to wish to wind up in.

Anderson Cooper could have been Stephen's prince, but what he really needed was a fairy godmother.

—

"Do you think they're dating?" Cooper asked suddenly one day near the end of the semester, putting his econ book down beside him on his bed.

"What are you talking about?" Stephen asked. He'd been staring at the current script at his desk and trying to figure out if the writer had suffered some small form of brain damage or done a lot of drugs during his college days, which had led to wondering if Jon would have similar problems from all the pot, and if Rahm would push him around in a wheelchair when his mind failed him or if Rahm would just put him down.

"You were just mumbling about them," Cooper said, "and as far as I know, marijuana doesn't have a collective deteriorative effect like that."

At least, Stephen thought, he'd only been mumbling.

"No," Stephen said, abandoning the script from stupid hell to concentrate on Cooper. "Not that I know of." Then, "Did they say anything to you?"

"Stephen, I only see them when they come to kidnap you," Cooper said. "Or on the rare occasion when they drop by and you aren't here."

"Oh," Stephen said.

"It's just—" Cooper said, ocean eyes downcast, fiddling with the edges of the book's cover, "—Rahm seems very—I don't know—fond. Of Jon."

"Rahm isn't capable of normal human emotions like fondness," Stephen said automatically, before his mouth could properly consult his brain or his eyes scout out for Rahm hiding outside the window or lurking in the hall. The lack of immediate retribution confirmed that Stephen and Cooper were alone, and Stephen heaved a tiny sigh of relief.

"That's not true!" Cooper said, pushing the book away. "Just because he teases you—"

"Jon teases me," Stephen said. "Rahm torments. There is a difference."

Cooper's expression was strange as he said, "Is he really that bad to you?"

"Yes," Stephen said firmly.

Then, with just as much conviction, "No."

Cooper stared at Stephen like he was the one with the drug-induced brain damage, and Stephen said, "It's complicated."

It was. Just as complicated as Jon and Rahm's relationship, which Stephen couldn't really call dating, especially not taking into consideration how much they flirted with Stephen, if random touches and standing too close and arguing over who got to draw Stephen into his lap during the occasional movie night counted as flirting, which Stephen thought probably did, even when normal people were involved.

It occurred to Stephen, though, that it was possible—

"No, Stephen, I don't think they're trying to arrange a ménage à trois," Cooper said before that train of thought could reach its next station, and by station, Stephen meant the edge of a rocky cliff, the bottom of which was laced with thermite and explosives.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," Stephen said. "It makes me think you're psychic and stealing my thoughts."

"You don't say _everything_ aloud anymore," Cooper said, stretching out on his bed, "and I've never responded to every single thing you've said."

"Like?" Stephen prodded.

Cooper grinned. "That would be telling." He looked self-satisfied and murmured something about "Lancelot."

Stephen wanted to say something about how Cooper shouldn't get full of himself, because this time around Guinevere had no intention of letting him up her skirts, but there was a knock at the door and it opened to reveal Stephen's king and his sneaky magician. Stephen stared at them, depressed that it had come to this.

"Are you ready?" Jon asked.

"No," Stephen said, though his traitorous hand was grabbing his jacket anyway.

"Why the hell not?" Rahm said, but he was grinning too wide for Stephen to take any threat seriously.

"Where are you going?" Cooper asked, and for some reason his eyes lingered on Rahm instead of asking his actual roommate. Maybe he knew as well as Stephen that Rahm was the one who had the most choice in this, or maybe by this point he knew to keep an eye on Rahm, like a tiny, fluffy rabbit facing a crocodile.

"To celebrate," Rahm said, throwing an arm around Stephen.

"He turned in his dissertation," Jon said, taking Stephen's other shoulder, which Stephen didn't think wise for any number of reasons, starting with how were they going to get out the door?

"Yesterday, actually," Rahm said. "But I said fuck you to Jon's insistence on celebrating until I'd actually gotten some sleep."

"Congratulations," Cooper said, because he was nice like that, directing his easy smile Rahm's way, and then Rahm and Jon were steering Stephen for the door.

They let him go briefly, but once they were all outside, heading across campus, their arms were looped casually (and by casually, Stephen meant not at all casual, obviously intent on making sure he couldn't make his escape) about Stephen's shoulders once more.

"So where are we going?" Stephen asked, voice choked, and when Rahm looked at him, it was obvious he knew what Stephen was really asking, but all he said was, "You'll see."

—

They made a stop by Jon's car to pick up a blanket and an honest-to-God picnic basket. From there, they walked directly to the water front, darting across Lakeshore while Stephen yelled "You're insane!" and Jon and Rahm laughed like they thought getting plowed down by cars would be hilarious instead of painful and horrifying.

Jon lay the blanket down on the sand, and he and Rahm sat down on it, still laughing a little from their crazy adrenaline-rush-inducing crossing.

"Are you serious?" Stephen asked, breathless and still shocky, and they each grabbed a hand and pulled him down onto the blanket with them.

"Take a load off," Rahm said.

"Have a sandwich," Jon said, taking one out and passing it to Stephen. Stephen took it reluctantly, but it appeared to be peanut butter and jelly. Even Jon couldn't mess up peanut butter and jelly.

. . . Stephen hoped.

"It's okay, I made the food," Rahm said.

"In return, I bought the champagne," Jon said, pulling out a bottle.

"Please tell me you're joking," Stephen said now, because sure, he was old enough to drink legally, but that didn't mean the cops would be any less likely to _arrest them_ for public intoxication.

"You worry too much," Rahm said, smiling, and Stephen wanted to say that no, he probably didn't worry enough, because he'd somehow ended up on a drunken picnic with two hooligans passing for grad students, but Rahm was too happy about the fact that he wasn't going to be a grad student much longer for Stephen to want to bring him down. It was enough that one of them was miserable.

Jon poured the champagne into little plastic cups and handed them over. He put his own forward, and Rahm bumped his into Jon's. They looked expectantly at Stephen, who hesitantly tapped his against theirs, and they grinned approvingly.

"Bottoms up!" Jon said, tilting his back.

Stephen hesitantly gulped at his. It was sharp, almost tart, and bubbled the whole way down.

There was only enough for them to have a couple glasses each, and when it was gone, Rahm pulled Stephen into his warm, denim-covered lap and ran a hand soothingly through Stephen's hair. Jon didn't protest for once, just sprawled out on his side of the blanket and watched them, expression almost affectionate.

Stephen closed his eyes, asked, "What are your plans after this?"

"I'm having a party midway through finals," Rahm said. "We'll need to take a break from grading at some point."

Stephen sighed, decided to let it go for now. A second hand began playing with his hair, and when he opened his eyes, he could see Jon leaning forward, smiling gently at Rahm as they ran comforting fingers along the back of Stephen's head.

—

Stephen had to admit that Cooper really did have the best makings of a prince of the three, dangers of drowning aside.

(Not to mention that drowning was likely a kinder death than being torn asunder, cool embrace on all sides rather than the painful pull of two opposing forces—no, Cooper, it _isn't_ possible to consider instead them working in tandem, because that way lies madness and nervous breakdowns and locking myself in the storage closet again to hide, and Griff hates when I do that).

He was pretty in a golden boy sort of way, had admitted he'd modeled to Stephen one night early on, when Stephen had said, "You look like the illegitimate offspring of several GQ covers." Then Cooper'd gotten all offended and quiet when Stephen had continued on like he hadn't heard, "Actually, it would explain a lot. All the pretty, but none of the smart genes left." That was before Cooper had become inured to the fact that Stephen wasn't always one-hundred percent in charge of what he was saying yet, though he was getting better at it all the time.

Not to mention Cooper was kind and seemed like the sort to strive for social justice, telling Stephen what did and did not consist of Fair Trade ("No, Stephen, you giving them money and them giving you an equally valuable product is not what they mean by Fair Trade."). Cooper didn't drink coffee (or anything hot, really, and Stephen had his suspicions about that, mainly consisting of it being entirely possible that Cooper was not actually from Earth and hot beverages were one of his species' few weaknesses), but that meant he wasn't bleary-eyed and unable to function in the morning without it like Jon had been the once Rahm stole his coffee maker and withheld all caffeine to see how Jon would do without it.

(The answer: poorly, tripping over things and stumbling over his words and finally shoving Stephen onto the couch of Rahm's apartment to use as a fleshy pillow before falling asleep, at which point Rahm revealed that Jon hadn't managed more than four hours a night for two weeks running, and so Stephen was stuck there for six hours, until he was absolutely desperate and Rahm finally said he could get up to use the restroom. When he returned, Jon was sitting up again, rubbing at his eyes, and Rahm's expression was almost gentle, smile soft like a blunted knife as he'd run a hand through Jon's hair. Then they'd looked over to Stephen, and Jon's expression stayed sleepy and open, welcoming, but Rahm's had gone sharp again, drawing away even as he gestured for Stephen to come back in and join them.)

Cooper even had the background of a prince, no matter what he said about the obscenely old school wealthy being separate from actual royalty.

If Jon were a prince, sure, he would be interested in social justice; but he'd probably piss everyone off with his stinging jokes and incisive commentary. And while sometimes Stephen worried about Cooper throwing himself too much into a cause, it wasn't the same worry for Jon, who lost sleep over the latest news cycle, but never turned it off, insisted on checking all the stories first thing after waking and calling it, only a little joking, his "morning cup of sadness." Jon didn't sleep well, forgot to eat well, and generally was the sort of person who Stephen thought needed looking after, not put in charge of a whole country.

And Rahm—Rahm would set the kingdom on fire.

(Okay. Okay, that wasn't fair. Rahm would take very good care of the country, whether it wanted it or not, fuck the people who got in his way. Rahm would bully the country to greatness, to taking care of its kids and each other and even its relationships with other countries, and everyone would kind of hate him for this, but they would also helplessly, hopelessly love him, because that's what Rahm inspired: the kind of love that crooned in your ear, "You're doomed, you're doomed, and you know you love it. All shall love me and despair." But Cooper still won the prince contest, because at least no one would feel conflicted in loving him.)

Cooper was all easy smiles and clear-cut morals. Stephen always knew where he stood with Cooper, who never failed to call Stephen out when he was upset and would always say something nice when he was pleased with Stephen. Cooper didn't play mind games or keep Stephen guessing. Cooper was, well, simple. He was like a two-piece puzzle.

But the thing was, Stephen didn't want simple or clear-cut. God help him, he liked his complicated relationship with Jon and Rahm, liked not having it all figured out. It was messy and terrible and nothing a rational person ought to choose for himself, but Stephen didn't care, would've chosen it anyway. It was why he was so heartbroken when he figured out that it wasn't going to be a choice anymore.

—

"It's not the end of the world, Stephen," Cooper said, obviously too clear-headed in the face of a crisis.

"It is," Stephen said. "My world. It's the end of an era."

"Weren't you the one who said it was an era of fear?"

"How do you know what feels safe if you're not afraid?" Stephen asked weakly.

—

And then there was the musing on his fate and trying to welcome pillowy death, its grasping cotton arms pried away by a well-meaning but ultimately destructive soul who managed to even draw Cooper into it, poor Cooper, still just a freshman who'd yet to truly _live_.

"You are such a crazy person," Jon said fondly, resolutely pushing him up the steps and through the open door of Rahm's apartment. Fi and Rahm were holding court on his sofa, a small crowd around them, laughing at whatever story Fi was trying to tell, gesticulating wildly with the hand not clutching a drink. She was in her cut-throat back-alley clothes, but her dark hair looked soft, one lock having broken free of her pony tail to stick in her shiny brown lipstick, and she would've been a calming sight, like balm to his wounds, if he didn't know this was her going away party, too.

Jon abandoned Stephen to take his place beside Rahm on the three person throne of a couch, and Cooper came up beside Stephen, said, "It's difficult, isn't it?"

Stephen swallowed hard and turned away, headed toward the tiny kitchen and the alcohol it presumably held. "I have no idea what you're talking about," Stephen said when Cooper followed him, intent on getting an answer, or perhaps also understanding that the only way to get through this was with the help of booze and its delicious numbing properties, like a magic potion designed as a panacea for the soul.

The kitchen turned out to hold only cheap beer, but it was plentiful and would work just as well as anything else. Cooper wrinkled his nose at it and said, "Is that really necessary?"

"It really, really is," Stephen assured him, filling a cup with it and downing half in one go.

"I think I'll stick with water," Cooper said.

Rahm appeared unexpectedly, as he was wont to do, and said, "I've only got tap."

"That'll be fine," Cooper said, looking away.

"Trust me on this, it tastes horrible." Rahm opened his fridge and pulled out a coke, pressed it into Cooper's hands. "For you," he said, corners of his eyes crinkling, and was Cooper _blushing_?

Stephen imagined his expression was likely one of horror, but Rahm smiled at him, too, and ruffled his hair affectionately. "You can spend the night," Rahm said, nodding at the beer in Stephen's hand.

"If I were drinking, could I spend the night, too?" Cooper asked, and it was as though he wanted to jump in the lion's mouth just like everyone else wanted to jump in his eyes and drown. Did he have no sense of danger?

Rahm laughed. "I think we can arrange something without the drinking."

"Rahm! Get your ass in here, your adoring public awaits!" came Fi's demanding, laughing voice, and Rahm tilted his head at them as if to say, "We'll take this up later," and then he was sweeping out and into the living room again.

Cooper looked at Stephen, scratched at one eyebrow awkwardly. "If it's—if I'm out of line, you can tell me," Cooper said.

"No," Stephen said. "You're not, I—excuse me." He downed the rest of his drink and walked out of the kitchen, through the living room and its press of people, then out the front door to sit on the top step, the cold of the concrete pressing hard through his khakis and leeching away his warmth. Stephen leaned against the iron rail and pressed his fingers against the rough edge of the step, closed his eyes and tried to quiet his always racing, always circling mind. It didn't work very well.

Cooper wasn't out of line. Stephen didn't _own_ Jon or Rahm. He didn't have any claims to stake. Sure, Stephen would have chosen them if given the choice, but he'd never been able to choose between them, hadn't thought about it, thought he'd ever have to. When he was absolutely honest with himself, he could admit that he loved them, Jon and Rahm and even, despite himself, Anderson Cooper and his ocean eyes.

He just—a part of him had hoped that things wouldn't change. That he'd always have his Wednesday lunches and movie nights with Jon and Rahm and shooting the breeze with Cooper in their dorm room while they pretended to study. Sure, it would mean not having anything more, but it would also mean not having anything less. He wondered if Guinevere had always thought that Camelot would last forever, all bright shining beacons of love and peace and loyalty, of holding true.

He wondered if Guinevere had thought it through, if she would have been able to choose.

—

"Hey," a voice said, and Stephen opened his eyes to Jon settling in next to him, passing over another cup of beer. Stephen dredged up a weak smile, and Jon said, voice soft, tone kind despite his words, "It's what we do, even you. The entire point is to graduate."

Stephen took a sip of the beer, then put it aside, leaned into Jon's shoulder. Jon brought a hand up to Stephen's back, fingers gentle through the thin cotton blend of Stephen's polo. "I wish—" Stephen said, then stopped. It wasn't fair of him to say this now, to choose when it was obvious he only had one real choice.

"What?" Jon asked, continuing to rub gentle lines into Stephen's shoulders.

And yet, Stephen had to wonder, Jon sitting out here with him, sides pressed together, if maybe Jon didn't care about fair, had made his own choices (in befriending Stephen, in never quite getting back together with Rahm, in bringing Cooper here with them tonight) and just hoped that everyone's aligned. Stephen curled a hand in the back of Jon's t-shirt, took a deep breath, then another.

"I wish I could at least keep you," Stephen said, almost surprised at how steady his voice came out, like he had no doubt, had no fears that this could go horribly wrong, that he'd misunderstood and Jon would let go, walk away.

Jon's hand stilled, and it felt like Stephen's stomach dropped several inches in reply. Stephen looked away, at the iron rail and the tiny yard beyond.

"Hey," Jon said again, other hand coming up to lightly, insistently tug Stephen's head around. Jon was smiling, leaning forward, entire body projecting an almost bewildered happiness. Stephen could see the streetlamps reflect in Jon's eyes, the specks in his blue irises (not like the ocean at all, nothing like drowning, more likely to buoy him up), and then Stephen was closing his own eyes because they were kissing, mellow and tender and kind of sweet. Jon pulled back, and Stephen brought his hands up to Jon's head, buried them in Jon's curls, and tugged him forward again. Jon's mouth didn't taste like candy—was a little bitter, actually, with the faint remnants of beer—but Stephen couldn't help but think it was everything he could have expected, might have hoped for.

—

Jon went back in to the party first, and Stephen stayed outside to finish the beer Jon had brought him.

They would graduate together next year. It didn't mean anything, but Stephen held it close to his heart all the same. A lot could happen in a year, but a lot couldn't, too, if he were too afraid to reach for it.

—

Stephen wasn't all that surprised when Cooper sat down next to him, shoulders hunched.

"Are we—are we okay?" Cooper asked.

"We're fine," Stephen said, and even if—no matter where things did or didn't go with Jon, Stephen meant it.

"I don't—he's leaving after this, so it wouldn't actually mean that much, but—" Cooper was red and he was fumbling his words like the day they'd met, the little candle that hoped it could, trying so very hard to light.

"Go for it," Stephen said. Cooper looked horrified, and Stephen said, "No, really. I mean it." He handed Cooper the dregs of his beer and said, "And if you drink this, you'll have a definite reason to stay."

Cooper still looked horrified, but it seemed more at the thought of finishing Stephen's beer than at Stephen's encouragement. Stephen patted him on the shoulder, then stood, walking back into the party and its throngs of people, keeping an eye out for Fi or Rahm or Jon. Stephen found Rahm first, but he was deep in a heated academic discussion with two people, and immediately following that, Jon found him, tugging on his arm and speaking directly in his ear, breath warm, "Follow me."

Stephen had been in Rahm's apartment any number of times, and the tiny hallway they approached only led to three doors: one bathroom and two bedrooms, one of which was used as a sort of makeshift study. It wasn't the bathroom door Jon opened, nor the study he tugged Stephen into. "Is this a good idea?" Stephen asked, closing the door on the sounds of the party behind them, muffling it to a dim roar.

"When have my ideas been any less than great?" Jon asked, pulling Stephen toward the bed.

"But that's Rahm's bed!" Stephen said, eyes wide.

"I know." Jon's grin was no less than devious as he kicked off his shoes. "He wouldn't mind," Jon said, blithely unconcerned with any impending fury on Rahm's part.

"I'm going to die," Stephen said, toeing off his own shoes and crawling onto the covers with Jon, still sure that this was not a good plan, but just as sure that he was going to go along with it anyway.

"Only a little death," Jon said, pushing Stephen down into the pillows, and then they were kissing again, the transition too quick for Stephen to roll his eyes.

Jon's hands seemed to be everywhere—unbuckling Stephen's belt, pushing up his shirt, undoing his pants, and skating up his ribs. Stephen made his own attempts at reciprocation, stopping them to pull Jon's shirt off so he could lick Jon's collarbone, kiss the curve of one shoulder, then bite lightly at the other, listening carefully to Jon's breathing hitch as he tried to figure out what Jon liked more. When Jon started tugging at Stephen's pants and pulling at the waistband of the boxers beneath, Stephen revised his opinion to think that maybe this was the best plan ever in the history of mankind, that all of the light and explosions and building up of stardust was obviously meant to lead up to this moment in time.

Then the bedroom door opened and Rahm and Cooper were tumbling through, and Stephen realized that no, he'd been right at the beginning, and this was the worst plan ever.

"Um, we—" Cooper said awkwardly.

Stephen suspected that the squeaking noise, like a cornered mouse just before it was swatted by a hungry alley cat, came from himself.

It was certainly not from Rahm, still smirking like said alley cat as he spoke: "Making yourself at home, I see."

Jon huffed out a frustrated breath and threw a pillow. Rahm caught it easily, still smirking. "Out!" Jon said, pointing.

"It's my bedroom," Rahm said, snagging Cooper by the collar of his shirt and dropping the pillow to the floor, "but we'll take the study. Have fun, kids." He gave a small wave and shut the door behind him.

Jon got up and pointedly locked the door before returning to the bed, crawling back onto Stephen and dropping a brief kiss against his mouth before whispering, "Sorry."

"I was the one who forgot to lock the door," Stephen said, trying to calm his breathing and failing, breath stuttering in his throat as Jon traced a hand along his ribs and down his side to rest the tips of his fingers along the elastic waistband of his boxers once more.

Jon pressed another kiss to Stephen's mouth, coaxing and open, and Stephen tried to sink into it, to focus fully on Jon's lips, on his wet mouth and tongue pressed confidently against Stephen's own, on the encouraging little sounds Jon made as Stephen pushed back against him. But a small part of himself couldn't help but be contrary, a shard of concentration devoted to how Rahm's arm had been looped around Cooper's shoulders, how Cooper had been flushed in the light of the doorway from more than mere embarrassment, lips already red and swollen. Despite himself, a tiny part wondered (didn't have to) what was going on in the study, what Rahm was doing and how Cooper would respond.

They made out, seconds unspooling into minutes that felt like hours, time unraveling and slowing nearly to a halt for Stephen. One of Jon's hands remaining at Stephen's waist and the other buried itself in Stephen's hair. Stephen allowed his own hands to wander, to touch the rough curls of Jon's hair, the smooth skin of his neck. He traced a palm against the wing of one of Jon's shoulders, the other along each knob of Jon's spine. The majority of his attention really was devoted to Jon, to the press of his weight against Stephen's front, the whorls of each fingertip resting gently, gently against the skin of his waist, as if waiting for permission, or asking it.

"Jon," Stephen managed, voice rasping, and Jon kissed him again, said, "Sh, it's okay," and, "We don't have to go any further."

I want to, Stephen thought. But Stephen also wanted this to be about them, entirely about Jon and Stephen and how surely Guinevere had loved Arthur more—surely had to have loved him best, to have married him. He didn't want it to be about thoughts straying to another room and other people, about his own inability to let go and grasp only one thing at a time.

So when Jon disengaged—his next several kisses not as deep, pulling away millimeter by millimeter, until he was merely resting his forehead against Stephen's—Stephen didn't protest, never mind how much he wanted to. Jon's hand slid to Stephen's stomach and rested there as Jon said, "You should get some rest."

"And you'll what, watch like a creepy old man?" Stephen asked, tugging at Jon until he sprawled out beside Stephen.

"I thought I would sleep, too," Jon said, smiling as he claimed part of the pillow Stephen was resting on, "but if you'd really like me to—"

"Sleep," Stephen said. "You'll have other opportunities later."

Jon stole one last kiss and then closed his eyes. Stephen watched for several minutes. It didn't feel creepy, but he did feel old, staring at Jon's face as it relaxed, then went slack with sleep.

"Sweet dreams," Stephen whispered eventually and finally closed his eyes.

He didn't remember his own.

—

The next morning, Stephen woke first, early, as light edged its first traces through the window. Jon was turned away, face buried in the pillow, and Stephen pulled back on his pants and crept out of bed, reluctant to wake him.

Someone Stephen didn't know was passed out on the couch, and the coffee table was littered with plastic cups. The TV displayed the flashing images of an infomercial, no sound. The smell of coffee drifted from the kitchen, and Stephen followed it, found Rahm seated at a stool by the counter, staring into his mug. Rahm looked up at Stephen's entrance, pulled out another mug and poured him a cup.

"Where's Cooper?" Stephen asked, voice hushed as he accepted the mug, mindful that others were still sleeping.

"He fell asleep on the futon," Rahm said. He took a sip of coffee, and Stephen mirrored his action. He generally didn't drink it black, and it was bitter on his tongue, stronger than any he would've made on his own.

Stephen placed the mug back on the counter, pushed it back and forth by the ceramic handle. It made a tiny scraping sound, porcelain against Formica.

Finally, Rahm asked, "What do you want me to say? That I'm sorry? That I have regrets?"

Stephen pushed the mug in a little circle, concentrated on making a perfect 360 using just the tips of his fingers. Rahm's hand closed over Stephen's own, and Stephen looked at him.

"I don't," Rahm said quietly.

"I do," Stephen said.

Rahm let go of Stephen's hand and picked up the coffee again, dark, dented eyes peering into its murky surface. Stephen left the kitchen, made his way for the study. He opened the door to see Cooper, curled up on the gray futon, face smooth with sleep, one hand lying palm up, fingers half-curled like he was accepting something, closing his fist protectively around some gift.

Stephen sat on the floor next to him and thought, Let me tell you a story.

Any other day, Stephen might have worried about his word vomit, about all his thoughts spilling out, but he'd gotten better about that, and he felt oddly calm, almost peaceful in a way as he tried to order his spinning thoughts. Stephen supposed it would be best to start with the grad students. His biggest problem with being an undergrad at Northwestern was definitely the grad students.

Stephen went around in circles, backtracking, trying to figure out where to start, able to imagine Cooper's interruptions, his indignation at Stephen's opinion of him at times, and Stephen smiled, though Cooper slept through it all. When Stephen was done, realized there was no conclusion to come to for Cooper, poor Cooper who didn't get a king or a prince or a magician—only a one night stand he worried might impact his friendships—Stephen stood and walked back into the hallway, slipped into Rahm's room and bed to curl up with Jon, who—at Stephen's first light touch—turned over and threw an arm over him, drew him close.

Stephen studied the light falling on Jon's curls, painted across his bare arms and shoulders. Stephen didn't fall back into sleep, but for a little while, he allowed himself to dream.


End file.
